


softer, softest

by fcngs



Category: IT (2017) RPF, IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Movie: IT Chapter Two (2019), Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), adult richie and eddie swear so much, basically benverly appropriation, fuck them clowns, half is set in 1990 and half is set in 2016, inspired by january embers, love confessions in the sewers, richie writes a poem for eddie, stan is in love with richie but u gotta squint, the author overuses italics, theres a subtle adrian and don parallel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 18:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20680079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fcngs/pseuds/fcngs
Summary: As they both caught their breath, and Richie looked up at Eddie’s freckled face and fond eyes, hair curling slightly at the ends, he had a thought. It was stupid, he knew it. It would end disastrously. There was no way it would work.Yet it made absolutely perfect sense. Because if Beverly could be in love with someone who wrote her a poem, then so could Eddie Kaspbrak.And there was nothing Richie Tozier wanted more than for Eddie to love him back.-An anonymous poem by a fourteen year old about freckles and shaky hands survives almost three decades. Richie Tozier's feelings for Eddie Kaspbrak survive, too.





	1. 1990

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic has been translated into russian by the lovely [katherinethesilence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherinethesilence/pseuds/katherinethesilence) and if that's more convenient for you then u can find it [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/8657260). enjoy!! <3

The first time Richie had seen the postcard had been at the quarry. It was only one day after he’d met Beverly Marsh, which he found really strange to think of. Not knowing Beverly Marsh was unthinkable now. Who the hell did he bum his cigarettes off before her? Who did he drink with, who did he sneak into R rated movies at the Aladdin with? No one, that’s who. Pre-Beverly Richie Tozier must’ve been one sad motherfucker. But, anyway, the postcard. It had been in Ben’s backpack, he remembered, the Derry standpipe with a jolly _ Greetings from Derry! _ plastered in a fancy font. Ben had snatched it away from him before he could flip it over to see who it was from.

It seemed, however, it was not from someone else, but rather from Ben _ to _someone. This was a fact that Richie had to bite his tongue hard to stop from spitting out, as Beverly brandished that very postcard in his face proudly. “I haven’t shown anyone else this,” she said, smiling a little. Richie just stared at the sepia Derry standpipe inches from his nose and begged his mouth not to run away from him. “I wasn’t going to, but I needed to tell someone, and we talk about shit. Well, not this shit, but other shit. So I thought we could talk about this shit.”

“What’s the shit?” Asked Richie, producing a cigarette from his shirts little front pocket and fiddling with his lighter. 

Beverly grinned. “It’s a love poem. For _ me _. Can you believe it? Jesus Christ, God help them, am I right?” She laughed, but her laugh was a little nervous, now. He could tell she was antsy about how he would take this.

“M’lady, I can very well believe it. A doll like you? You should be drowning in love letters.” Richie didn’t usually use his voices with Beverly much, because he didn’t feel he had to be funny. He liked that; he could be quiet and Bev didn’t seem to care. But that didn’t stop him being himself. Beverly slapped him lightly on the arm.

“Beep beep.”

“Well, who sent it, then?” Richie asked, taking a long drag of the cigarette and handing it to Beverly. He knew she probably didn’t know, judging from the look on her face. Thank fuck he bit his tongue, then.

“I don’t fucking _ know _ , Richie. It isn’t Bill. I said to him. I said, _ January embers _, but did he know what the hell I was talking about? No!” Beverly’s face had gone hot. She pushed a hand through her wild curls.

“January what-now? Lemme see it.” Richie snatched it from her hands and flipped it to the other side.

_ Your hair is winter fire _

_ January embers _

_ My heart burns there, too _

He read it twice, just to make sure he got the gist, then whistled low. “He’s whipped, whoever he is. That’s a fucking cool poem. What’s it mean?”

Beverly shrugged. “I think it means my hair is red and he loves me? I don’t know, I didn’t write it, did I?” 

“It definitely isn’t Bill, well. Any ideas?”

Beverly’s eyes go a little far away. “Whoever it is, I’m in love with them.”

This catches Richie’s attention. “But you don’t know who sent it.”

She looked at him as if he’d gone absolutely mad. Bonkers. “I don’t need to know, Rich. They wrote that. For me. Me!”

“What if it was me?”

Beverly laughed brightly. Richie groaned. “Ok, what if it was Hockstetter?”

  
“Why would it be Hockstetter?” Her nose was upturned.

“Hmph.” He thought for a minute, and then, an idea sprang to his head. Test the waters, Richie, he told himself. Dip one toe in gently and see how this goes. “What if it’s a girl?  
Without missing a beat, Beverly replied, “Then I guess I’m in love with her, then.” She looked proud of herself.

Richie’s chest felt tons lighter. He dared not say anything, but his brain was screaming ‘_ YOU TOO???’ _. He smiled at her and hoped that was enough. From the sparkle in her eyes, it seemed to be. The only person who knew Richie liked boys was Stan, and only because Stan had told him that he liked boys first. He’d wanted to tell Beverly, too, this summer specifically, since he knew she’d be moving to Portland in the spring.

“So, lover girl, you ready to figure out who the fuck wrote this?”

Beverly smiled evilly. “No fucking way, trashmouth. I’m happy in my bubble of obliviousness. As soon as I know, I have to deal with real-ass feelings.” 

Richie didn’t blame her.

* 

The idea only really planted itself a week later, when he and Eddie were sitting in his room, planning Bill’s fifteenth birthday party. They were taking him to the clubhouse, obviously, then the quarry for a few hours, and then to Richie’s house for a movie marathon of...something Bill liked.

“Why the fuck don’t we know what Bill likes to watch?” Eddie asked, maniacally, from the foot of Richie’s bed. He had his favourite Thundercats t-shirt on and Richie’s favourite red shorts which were definitely too small for him, now. Cute, cute, cute.

“Why the fuck should we?”

“Richie!"

  
“I’m just saying! There’s a reason Bev and I are always in charge of what we watch at sleepovers, dipshit,” he gestured at himself wildly, “we have the best taste.”

“Blade Runner on repeat is _ not _the ‘best taste’, Richie!”

“Why would you ever say such a thing about Harrison Ford!”

“I said fuck all about Harrison Ford!”

“Well, you’ve made me watch Footloose so many times I might as well _ be _Kevin Bacon!”

Eddie’s eyes went dark. “You fucking _ wish _you were Kevin Bacon.” 

_ Well, _ Richie thought, _ since he’s the object of all your fucking affections apparently, then yes, I do fucking wish I was Kevin Bacon. _ This was his last coherent thought before Eddie lunged at him and his brain began chanting _ eddieeddieeddieeddie _as they giggled and tumbled. Richie struggled for purchase, but Eddie avoided his sharp knees and elbows and managed to straddle him around the waist, hands pinned at the wrists above his head.

“There,” Eddie puffed, as if he was proving a point.

As they both caught their breath, and Richie looked up at Eddie’s freckled face and fond eyes, hair curling slightly at the ends, he had a thought. It was stupid, he knew it. It would end disastrously. There was no way it would work.

And yet it made absolutely perfect sense. Because if Beverly could be in love with someone who wrote her a poem, then so could Eddie Kaspbrak.

And there was nothing Richie Tozier wanted more than for Eddie to love him back.

*

It had taken him several weeks to pluck up the nerve to actually ask Ben about the poem. He didn’t really want to get himself involved in all the Ben-Beverly-Bill shit, but he needed to write a poem and he needed it fast. And he couldn’t fucking write for shit.

Yeah, he was an all A student. He could write a good essay, a short story if he needed to. Poetry? No fucking way. Up until January embers, Richie thought poems _ had _to rhyme. There was no way he could write this shit on his own.

He knocked on Ben’s door after hanging out with Eddie at the quarry. It had been a really nice day, all sun and cool breeze and Eddie shirtless and Eddie laughing and Eddie’s hair all wet and dripping from swimming and Eddie’s hands on his shoulders dunking him underwater and Eddie’s freckles spattering just perfectly across his face and holy shit Richie wanted to count every single one of-

“Richie?” Ben asked, snapping Richie out of his daze.

He startled, ears going red. “Benny-boy! Haystack! My man!” He slapped his shoulder and barged his way in. “Care if I impose?”

Ben gave him an exasperated look. “You’ve already imposed.”

“Hm.” Richie slung his backpack off and began to make his way up the stairs. “Parents not home?”

“You know they aren’t, Richie. Or you wouldn’t have came.”

“Smart, Haystack.” 

Ben began to follow him up the stairs and into his room, which was ridiculously empty now that all his obsessive old Derry shit had been taken down. A reminder of a summer the Losers would much rather forget, thank you very much. Richie threw himself on Ben’s bed.

“Poetry, my dear Ben. I must query you on poetry.”

Ben’s whole face fell, and turned an interesting shade of red. “Wh-”

Richie just gave him a deadpan look. “Bev still has that postcard, you know.”

Ben’s face went an even _ more _interesting shade of red, if that was possible, and said with about as much conviction as a drunk person exclaiming they are definitely not drunk, “I don’t like Beverly anymore.”

Richie spent a good five minutes howling with laughter. “God, Ben,” Richie said, sliding his hands under his glasses to wipe his eyes. “That was a good one. You got anymore one-liners like that I could steal?”

“Fuck you, Richie,” Ben said softly, coming to sit opposite him on the bed. “I don’t care that you saw that postcard. Why are you bringing it up? Can we forget about it?”

“No, no, we can’t.”

“You didn’t tell Beverly, did you?” He looked like he might cry. Or hit Richie over the head with his bedside lamp. Richie supposed either would be sufficient in getting Richie to leave the Hanscom residence as quickly as possible.

“Why the fuck would I do that, Haystack? You’re not the only one with a secret.” He regretted saying it as soon as the words left his lips, but he’s Richie Fucking Tozier, so he regretted most things that left his lips.

Ben raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question him on it, thank God. “Okay, then. Poetry.”

“I need to write one.”

“You what?”

Richie threw his hands in the air. “A poem! I need to write one!”

  
“For who?”

He blanched. He hadn’t actually thought of a lie, yet. “Um.” C’mon, Tozier, think. Who would you write a poem for? “My mom.”

Ben’s face screwed up. “Your...mom?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“And you need...my help? To write a poem? For your mom?”

  
Richie just looked at him. “Maybe you should get your hearing checked. Get Dr K on the case! Hey, when I’m over visiting Mrs K for some sweet sweet lovin’ tonight I could-”

“Beep, beep. So, how do you wanna do this?"

  
Richie considered it. “I don’t want it to rhyme.”

“Good start.” Ben got up from the bed and came back with a small notepad and a red pen. “Okay. What do you wanna say?”

Richie flushed. “‘I love you’.”

“Awww, Richie, I didn’t know you were such a mommy’s boy.” Oh, yeah. Ben thinks it’s for his mom.

“Fuck off and write me the goddamn poem, Hanscom.”

“Give me things to _ say _, trashmouth! Like, her hair or her eyes or something. Make it personal.”

“Hi-her. I mean her. Her hair is. Brown. And her eyes are. Brown, too."

Ben raised his eyebrows very slowly. “Richie, your mom is blonde.”

Richie blinked. “No, she’s not.”

“Yes, she is.”

“She dyed her hair.”

“I saw her yesterday.”

“She dyed it this morning.”

“Are you sure this is for your mom?”

“Yeah! It’s for my fucking mom!”

Ben looked a little sympathetic, which Richie fucking hated. “Listen, I’ll write the poem. Do it my way. I’ll give you it tomorrow, okay?”  
Richie just sighed. He wasn’t getting his poem from Ben. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Haystack. Keep those embers lit.” He winked at him as he jumped off the bed.

*

A mere week later, and Richie had exhausted almost all of his sources. Ben was no use, Mike had told him he couldn’t write for shit and would be no help, Richie assumed Bill couldn’t write for shit, there was no way Bev would be of any help to him, and Eddie was out of the picture for obvious reasons. He had even attempted to acquire help from his mom, but that failed when he stupidly told her the poem was for Bev. _ Bev. _ Of all the fucking girls he could think of - and he couldn’t think of many, to be honest - he had to choose his best friend who his mom _ knew _he didn’t like in that way. He had told her multiple times that kissing Bev would be like kissing one of the boys, which was probably one of the best chucks he ever got, because kissing one of the boys was definitely not a bad thing at all to Richie.

The only person Richie hadn’t consulted was Stan, because he knew he’d have to tell Stan the truth if he did, which was a little terrifying. But he had ran out of options. And so, Richie found himself sitting on the floor of the clubhouse with a shower cap-clad Stanley Uris curled up in the hammock in front of him. “Why are we down here, Richie?” He demanded gently. If anyone could demand gently, it was Stan.

“I need to tell you something,” Richie said, slowly. It felt weird, just him and Stan. Not in a bad way. In a ‘I don’t know how to not be an asshole and I feel like I don’t need to be one with you’ kind of way. He didn’t fucking know.

Stan’s face, which had been neutral up until that moment, opened up delightfully. His eyes widened and his brow crinkled and his lips made an almost smile. He looked _ hopeful _. For what, Richie wasn’t sure. “Okay,” he replied, his voice clipped.

“Jesus fuck, alright.” Pause. “So, I’m, like.” Pause. “In love?” Richie almost laughed when he said it, it felt so stupid. He fiddled with the Wonder Woman comic book he was clutching in his lap, dog-earing pages that had no use being dog-eared.

Stan’s face, so genuine, so soft. “You are?” He whispered 

“Yeah,” Richie replied. The way Stan was looking at him was making him anxious. What was going on? “With your mother.” There, that should sort it out.

Deadpan look. There he was! There’s the Stan Richie knew. He sighed. “Fuck you, Richie.”

He laughed, basking in the post-your-mom-joke-annoyance of Stan, which was probably one of his favourite feelings in the world. “Hey, hey, I’m serious, though,” he managed once he’d calmed himself down.

“You’re fourteen, Richie,” Stan said, carefully, like he was stepping on eggshells.

“I sure am.” He grinned toothily.

Stan’s resolve seemed to falter for just a moment. “How do you know?”

“I just do, Staniel. It’s so obvious. Like, I was made for loving this person, you know? This, um. This guy.”

Stan scrambled from the hammock to sit opposite Richie on the floor. “It’s a b-” But Richie shushed him, panic climbing up his chest, stealing a glance at the clubhouse entrance. Stan nodded and whispered, “It’s a boy?” 

Richie just looked at him. Stan got impossibly closer, hands either side of Richie’s knees. “Yeah. I wanna write him a poem.”

Stan smiled, small. “A poem? Seems awfully romantic for a trashmouth like you, don’t you think?”

Richie frowned exaggeratedly. “Trashmouth’s have feelings too, you know.” 

Stan rolled his eyes. Then, he looked at his lap. “Who is he, Richie? Can you tell me?”

Deep breath. This was fine. This was chill. Nothing bad about opening up to Stan. Stan was his best friend, bar Beverly. Hell, Stan was his platonic soulmate, if you will. They told each other everything. Which was what made this so hard, he guessed. “It’s, um.”

Stan looked up from under his lashes. Richie shut his eyes tight.

“It’s Eds.” A beat. Awful, terrible silence. “God, don’t tell him, Stan. I mean, I know you won’t, obviously, we’re best friends, you wouldn’t tell him, sorry for implying you would, but, you know, can never be too safe, and Jesus, Stan the man, don’t be weird that I like him, please, I don’t like you or Mike or Bill or Ben, it’s not weird I promise it’s _ just _ Eds, and oh my God he is gonna _ hate me _if he ever finds out! Like, he’ll actually, properly fucking hate me! How fucking funny is that! Jesus fuck I am never-"

  
“Beep beep.” The smallest voice in the world pulled Richie out of his thoughts. He opened his eyes slowly, and Stan was there, right there. He sat back, away from Richie, and folded his hands in his lap. “Eddie Kaspbrak. I should’ve known.” A sad smile played at his lips.

Richie lunged forward, hugging Stan tight. “I feel better now you know. Thanks, Staniel.” And because he felt uncharacteristically soft, he decided to say, “God, wait ‘til Mrs K hears about this next time we fuck. She’s in for a shocker!”

Stan laughed a little wetly, and smacked his arm, which disappointed Richie. No beep beep? No eye roll? But Stan was smiling at him, so did it matter that he looked a bit odd? “Poem, then?” He asked. Richie grinned and nodded. “I’m shit at writing, just so you know. But I can definitely write about love.” And if he thought Stan’s voice sounded a little wet around the edges, it must’ve just been his imagination. 

*

“Only if you let me get a pomeranian,” Richie said, smile concealed behind his arm as he lay on Eddie’s bed. They were having their favourite discussion - going to college in New York together. Living together. Richie felt like he was in that goddamn John Steinbeck book he was reading in english; Lennie and his rabbits, only it’s Richie and his motherfucking pomeranians. 

“You have no idea how many diseases pets can cause, Rich, and I know for a fact if you knew you would not want a pomeranian. You just wouldn’t. Dogs can be filthy, Rich, they can be so filthy, I swear. I don’t know how I feel about-" 

“We can call him Ice Cream. ‘Cause that’s, like, our thing.”

Eddie’s face broke. “Awwwwww.” And then, “No, I will not be persuaded, you dickhead, I won’t even adopt any animal with you I swear to God on my life we would be terrible parents. The dog would die, Rich, he would _ die _. You’d forget to feed him and he’d die. God, Rich, can you imagine us as parents?”

The question made Richie’s face burn. Richie and Eddie, together, parents. “I’m already a parent, Eds. You’re my step-son.”

“FUCK YOU,” Eddie replied.

“Hey, what’ll we look like when we’re older, Eds? You think you’ll be as cute as you are now?” _ Little on the nose there, Richie, but it’s fine. It’s FINE. You call Eds cute all the time. FINE. _

Eddie huffed. “Will you be as annoying as you are now?”

Richie grinned. “Definitely.”

His face softened a little. “You’ll still wear the same glasses, I bet.”

“You think you’ll still wear fanny packs?”

“I’ll be disappointed in future me if I don’t.”

“Yeah, and you’ll still wear short shorts, right?”  
Eddie shook his head. “You’ll still be wearing those fucking hawaiian shirts, I know it. I can see it now.”

Richie wiggled his eyebrows. “Like what you see?”

“Idiot.” Eddie slapped his forehead, then loomed over him for a second longer. Richie couldn’t breathe.

Richie booped Eddie on the noise, just because he wanted to. Eddie muttered something under his breath, then started fiddling with the zip on his fanny pack.

“Rich,” said Eddie, his voice low. “Don’t laugh at me.”

Richie scoffed. “You can’t say that and expect me not to laugh, Spaghetti Man.”

“Don’t call me that.” Richie grinned.

Richie propped himself up on his elbow, the bed dipping under him, and turned to look at Eddie beside him, sitting with his legs crossed. He slowly pulled out a crumpled piece of lined paper from his fanny pack. Richie’s heart jumped into his throat.

“Don’t _ laugh _.” Eddie stared into his eyes, pointedly, eyebrows raised. Richie just raised his hands in defeat. Eddie handed the paper to Richie, who unfolded it with shaking hands.

_ softer, softest, _

_ your freckles in the sun, _

_ my heartbeat when you touch me. _

_ when you stifle laughs, god Himself _

_ envies all who get to see you smile. _

_ if i could stop your hands from shaking forever, i would _

It made him feel a little sick, to see his words etched onto the paper in dried ink, clearly a boys handwriting, messy and careless. Stan had suggested he write it while holding the pen a different way than he usually did. “So he doesn’t know it’s you outright,” Stan had said, which made sense at the time. Right now, though, Richie just saw his own handwriting. It wasn’t different at all. 

Eddie was staring at him as his eyes traced his own words over and over again. “Softer, softest,” he said.

Richie swallowed. _ C’mon, Rich, you can do this. _His voice barely wavering, he looked right into Eddie’s eyes and said, “Your freckles in the sun.”

Eddie sighed and flopped back onto the bed. “Gross, gross, gross.” Oh. Okay, then. “Romance. I feel like I’m in. I’m. The L word.”

“The L word?”

Eddie turned toward him, face contorted. “What asshole would write that shit? For me?”

_ You’ve _ got _ to be fucking kidding me, _ Richie thought helplessly. “Gee, I don’t know, Eds. Whoever it is, they got it bad. _ Baaaaaaaaad _.”

Eddie rolled over, promptly screamed into his pillow, and rolled back to face Richie. “It’s disgusting. I want it tattooed on my body.”

“What if it was someone gross?” _ Like me _, he almost said. “Like Greta Keene?”

Eddie sat up and pretended to gag, and then actually did gag. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Definitely not her. No. I know.”  
Richie’s hands went clammy and, despite knowing that Eddie did not, in fact, know, said, “You know?”

“That it’s not her.” Eddie looked a little green in the face, now, and he snatched the paper out of Richie’s hands and pushed it back into his fanny pack. “You didn’t need to say that. I don’t even wanna know who it is. I just wanna pretend.”

“Pretend what?”

Eddie didn’t answer, forehead dropping onto Richie’s shoulder. Richie felt his whole body respond, heart punching through his ribcage. _ My heartbeat when you touch me. _

The poem is never mentioned again.


	2. 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for semi graphic descriptions of injury

Richie’s hands were shaking, badly. His jacket was doing little to staunch the wound, and the unsteadiness of his hands was hindering his ability to apply pressure. Eddie, half lucid and half completely out of it, was rambling. 

“-and she hated you so much, but you did it anyway, you climbed that fucking window because you wanted to see me, you wanted to see me, God that’s so lame, imagine wanting to see _ me _,” he spluttered, laughing slightly; a wet, sickening sound in his throat. 

Richie, tears blurring his vision ever so slightly, tried his best to focus on Eddie’s wound. _ Pressure on the fucking wound, Richie, c’mon. _ It was hard to focus when all his mind was a blaring cacophony of _ eddieeddieeddieeddieeddie _, although that’s all his mind had been thinking for his whole life, if he were honest. There’s just twenty seven years in the middle somewhere where Richie hadn’t known who the fuck the Eddie in his brain was. “I always wanna see you, dipshit,” he muttered.

A scream from Beverly ripped through the air, guttural and piercing, and Eddie’s head rolled in the direction of the noise. “Rich, go help them,” he mumbled, eyebrows furrowed.

Richie bit down on his tongue, hard, silently praying the tears pooled in his eyes didn’t spill down his cheeks. “They’ve got it, Eds, it’s okay. I’m gonna get you outta here, okay? I’m gonna get you outta here, you’re gonna be safe, I swear to fucking God.” Richie cupped Eddie’s face in his hand and stroked his thumb over the bandage on his cheek. Every time the idea of losing Eddie for good edged into the corner of his mind, he kicked it out again as hard as he could. He was _ not _entertaining such thoughts. No sir.

“Already safe,” Eddie said, smile small but evident. Blood dribbled down his chin, and Richie couldn’t stand it. He wiped the blood away with his hand, rubbing it down his shirt.

“Fuck, shit,” Richie muttered, watching as more blood seeped past Eddie’s lips. There was so much. So, so much. “Damn it, Eds, keep it in your veins."

“I’m so tired, Rich.” Eddie’s head lolled onto his chest, and Richie panicked.

“No, no, no, no,” he yelped, lifting his head back up gently. “You stay the fuck awake for me, Kaspbrak, okay?”

Eddie stared at him. “Always did, didn’t I?” He asked. 

Richie smiled fondly, caressing Eddie’s cheek again. He wasn’t sure what Eddie meant, but he didn’t think he cared all that much. This was Eddie Kaspbrak, in the flesh, under his palms, smiling at him. Bleeding to death. “Yeah, Eddie. Yeah.”

Eddie’s eyes were half-lidded, a steady stream of blood coming from his mouth. Richie had to keep reminding himself to staunch the wound in his chest. “I think I always knew.” 

He didn’t dare breathe. There’s no way Eddie could know. _ No way. _ Eventually, he asked, “What? What, Eds?”

Eddie croaked a laugh. “That it was you, you fucker.”

Shaky breath. Inhale. Exhale. “What was me?” _ Staunch the wound. Hold his face. Staunch the fucking wound, Tozier. _

Eddie laboured for a minute, lifting his hand slowly, shaking with the effort, to take one of Richie’s hands and present it in front of them both. “_ If I could stop your hands from shaking forever, I would, _” he said, looking pointedly at Richie’s trembling hand in his own. 

And then the world stopped, and Richie Tozier felt _ everything _. His tears slipped past his eyes and he began to cry, and Eddie tried his best to reach a weak hand out to wipe them. He couldn’t quite manage. Richie didn’t mind, and kissed him anyway. A soft press of lips, fingers intertwining between them. The taste of blood on both their tongues. Heaven and Hell converging in one kiss. 

“Your mom does it better,” Eddie said weakly when he pulled away. 

“I love you so much.” Richie wiped blood from his mouth and kissed Eddie’s forehead. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Another scream. Bill, this time. “Rich.” Eddie’s eyes were begging.

“Okay. Anything for my Eduardo.” Richie squeezed Eddie’s hand. 

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie replied, and Richie could feel his weak attempt at squeezing back. “I love you, fucknut.”

Richie kissed him once more, and it was a promise. _ I’m coming back for you _ . _ This is the last time I will ever leave your side again._

Eddie Kaspbrak watched Richie walk away, heart stammering to pump blood around his failing organs and the ghost of a kiss still settling on his bloody lips, and closed his eyes.

*

Richie had been given Eddie’s suitcases. 

He wasn’t particularly sure why, since he didn’t deem himself in any sound mental state to be given Eddie’s possessions. He sat on the bed in his room in the Derry townhouse, hands clasped over his head, body racking with sobs. Beside him lay a crumpled sheet of lined paper, yellowed and dying, ink fading. He’d just been sorting out Eddie’s stupidly large toiletry bag, figuring out what he might need and what he might not. And there it was.

_ Softer, softest _.

He’d kept it all these years.

*

Richie jerked awake. The fluorescent glow of the hospital lights made his head spin as he attempted to find his bearings. A soft weight was on his shoulder, breath fanning on his neck. He peered down at Beverly, as beautiful as the day he met her in 1989, and relaxed his shoulders so she could be comfortable. Bill and Mike had splayed themselves across a particularly uninviting leather couch, stuck in the corner. Richie smiled fondly at the way Mike’s arms were wrapped around Bill’s torso firmly; a vice-like grip. Never letting go again.

Richie only realised he was crying when Ben walked into the waiting area with steaming styrofoam cups and said, “Richie, you’re crying.”

“I am?” Richie laughed, choking on a sob.

Ben settled into the seat on his other side, mumbling something about how Bev wouldn’t need the coffee anyway as he handed Richie one of the cups. Richie stared at the tar black liquid swaying in his shaking hands. “He’s strong, Richie. He’s really, really fucking strong.”

_ I fucking know he is, _Richie wanted to bite back, but Ben was only trying to help and he knew it. Instead, he reached a hand out to Ben and Ben took it, squeezing. “I don’t-” he began, but couldn’t continue. Eddie was in a room somewhere, under bright lights and a surgeon's scalpel, dying, dying, dying, and Richie was sitting in an uncomfortable chair with a shitty coffee in his hand. “I wish it was me.”

Ben just squeezed his hand again in reply, exhaling through his nose. Beverly sniffled from her place on his shoulder. The only noise that filled the silence was the buzzing of the lights and Bill’s soft snoring into Mike’s chest.

At some point, between crying and squeezing Ben’s hand and staring at his coffee, Richie had fallen asleep. The next time he was woken, it was by Beverly, her hands soft on his face. “Richie,” she said, her voice lilting. “Richie, wake up. The nurse is talking to Ben. 

It was as if a switch was flicked in his brain, his Eddie Switch, and he stood up far too fast, the earth tilting beneath his feet, and grabbed Bev for balance. “Eddie,” he said, voice groggy, and Beverly began to lead him out of the waiting area.

A few minutes later, and Richie was running into Eddie’s room. He skidded on his knees to the side of Eddie’s bed, and peered at him cautiously. His face was clean but slack, mouth parted just enough for the endotracheal tube to pass through. Richie could still see a dark red stain visible underneath the white robe; blood seeping through bandage. His hand, which Richie wrapped in both of his, was cold. He dropped his forehead onto the mattress and felt tears prickle his eyes _ again _ , God _ fucking _damn it.

Behind him, the other Losers gathered. A sturdy hand, Mike’s or Bill’s, he wasn’t sure, clenched his shoulder. He squeezed his eyes tighter and focused on the faint beeping of Eddie’s heart monitor. _ That means I’m _ alive, _ dipshit, so stop crying, _Eddie’s voice said inside his head. 

“Can we get a few chairs?” Ben asked the nurse, presumably. “If you can, one comfortable one? An armchair?”

“An armchair?” That was Bill.

“He’s not gonna leave,” Ben whispered. “And he’ll break his back sleeping in one of those plastic ones.”

No one said another word.

*

It was three days later when Eddie woke. Richie had been sleeping in his plastic chair, a decrepit pillow tucked behind his back. Ben hadn’t been able to get him an armchair, sadly, and his back was truly paying for it. He was forty, for Fucks sake. He couldn’t spend three days straight in a shitty chair without facing tailbone-aching repercussions. But he was holding Eddie’s hand, and his hand was warm, now, and that was the only fucking thing that mattered. Maybe it’s the only thing that was ever gonna matter, Richie thought, Eddie’s hand in his.

“Dickweed.”

The voice was groggy, and a little slow, and unmistakably Eddie Kaspbrak. Richie almost fell out of his chair. “Eds,” he said, adjusting his glasses on his face with the hand Eddie’s wasn’t occupied with. He became acutely aware of how he hadn’t shaved in days, was wearing Mike’s clothes which were a size too big, and looked like complete and utter dog shite in general. But Eddie. Eddie was _ alive _. 

“Jesus, you look like complete and utter dog shite,” Eddie said, smiling. _ Smiling _.

Richie laughed. He just laughed, full and bright, his whole head lighting up with soft thoughts of the man in front of him, so alive, so real, smiling at him. He lunged forward and pressed a kiss into Eddie’s hair. Fuck the consquences. 

“So the fuck do you,” Richie finally replied. “How do you feel?"

“Take a wild guess.”

They talked for a little while, easing into conversation so naturally that it was nearly impossible to tell they’d just defeated a psychotic killer clown spider hybrid the week before. “And Bill’s leaving Audra, I think,” Richie was saying. "He’s gonna go to Florida with Mike.”

“Why’s he leaving Audra? They seemed happy together.” Eddie’s expression was one Richie couldn’t quite place.

“They weren’t. He told me, God, he was so fucking unhappy and he hadn’t really realised ‘til he came back here.” 

“Oh.”

  
“Derry can work miracles, apparently.”

“Never fucking say that again.”

Feeling brave and still high on adrenaline from Eddie’s wakening, Richie said, “Hey. It brought you back to me, didn’t it?”

Eddie hummed and ran his thumb over Richie’s knuckles. Richie exhaled. “I spoke to Myra, by the way.” Eddie winced visibly, then winced again when his wince sent shooting pain through his stitched chest.

“Fuck.”

“She was mad. Furious. Might’ve told her to fuck off a few times, sorry about that. Single-handedly responsible for your divorce, I guess.” He shrugged and tried a laugh, but it was weak and strangled.

“You were always gonna be,” Eddie mumbled, but Richie couldn’t make him out completely and hummed in confusion. “Nothing. I don’t wanna talk to her. I can’t go back.” Richie’s heart thrummed. “Not yet, anyway.” And then it fell. 

“‘Course. Gotta get you better first, don’t we, Eduardo. Then it’s back to the two point four and shit.” 

Eddie frowned. “What?”

Richie looked at him quizzically. “Two point four? Children? Happy marriage? White picket fence? The routine and domesticity and the dog and-”

“Will you shut the fuck up?”

Richie fell silent. 

“I’m leaving Myra, for fuck’s sake.” And hold the fuck up, that is not what Richie thought was going on, here. Like, yeah, Myra was Sonia 2.0, and she was a control freak, and Richie thought she spoke funny on the phone (not a valid reason to hate someone, really, but when you’re in love with their husband you kinda want to hate them for every reason you can), and she seemed like she would hate Richie. Definitely. But he did _ not _ expect Eddie to _ leave her _.

“Wh-”

Eddie held up a weak hand to silence him. “I’m not gonna live unhappily now I know I have a second chance at this life shit.”

“You’re staying in Derry?” Of course he wasn’t, Richie knew that much, but the implication was there. _ You’re staying with me? _

“The fuck I’m not.” 

Okay, so it was unfair to assume the implication was there. Richie told himself that the implication probably wasn’t there. He squeezed Eddie’s hand. “Then what?”

Eddie sighed. “I don’t _ know _. I’ve just woken up from having three heart attacks on the operating table, I don’t know shit. All I know is that I’m leaving my wife and I’m starving. Can you get me soup?” 

It took Richie’s brain a second to catch up, still mulling over the three heart attacks shit. “What?”

Eddie pursed his lips. “Soup, dipshit. Can you get me some?”

*

“So…are we gonna talk about it?”

Eddie was on his fourth bowl of soup of the day, Richie laying on the hospital bed beside him with one leg hanging off the edge. It was uncomfortable, but Richie didn’t particularly care.

“Talk about what?” Eddie asked, between slurps of lentil soup.

Richie turned his body to face Eddie, arms crossing defensively. Eddie’s face was still pale and splodged with bruises, but his eyes were bright and his hair was deliciously messy. Richie’s fingers twitched with the urge to run his fingers through it. “The sewers." 

His face contorted. “Gross. Never wanna talk about them again, thanks. Burying that forever.”

“No we aren’t, ‘cause I’m getting us therapists.” Eddie groaned. “Don’t groan at me.”

“I’m groaning,” Eddie said, then groaned again. 

Richie poked him in the cheek. “The sewers before I killed the clown and you passed the fuck out, genius.”

Eddie just nodded. “Yeah, when we kissed and shit. I remember.”

Richie’s eyes widened, his brain keyboard smashing considerably, like he’d seen one of his embarrassing Twitter fans do once upon seeing a picture of him with a snapback on. Eddie glanced at him, but did a double take when he saw how mildly horrified Richie looked. “Why are you looking at me like that?"

“You remember?” Richie’s brain was short-circuiting, now. _ ERROR. ERROR. EDDIE REMEMBER KISS. _ Why the fuck hadn’t Eddie said something as soon as he woke up?

He rolled his eyes. “Of course I do. Why else would I be leaving Myra?”

Richie gestured wildly with his hands. “I don’t know? Because you’re not happy with her? You met a younger, sexier woman and you’re gonna elope? You hate monogamy? You’re a flaming homosexual?"

  
Eddie snorted. “Yeah, the last one.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Wait.” Eddie looked at him. “Did you mean it?”

“Did I mean what?” 

“Oh, fuck, you didn’t. I’m so sorry. Oh, my God. Jesus fuck. Why would I think that.” Eddie set his soup down on the table beside him bed and laughed wetly. “Forget I said anything down there.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Eds?" 

Eddie had _ tears _in his eyes when he turned to Richie. “I must’ve been hallucinating or some shit with all the blood loss.” He laughed again, but it turned into a kind of stifled sob. 

“Hallucinating what?”

“Drop it, Rich.”

And that’s it. He’s finished. Pennywise didn’t fucking taunt him with a dirty little fucking secret for him to pussy out and succumb to the fear, just like that clown cunt knew he would. “Drop what? That I’m in fucking love with you?”

Eddie’s face snapped in his direction. “What?”

Richie set his jaw. “That’s right, fucker. You heard me. Softer, softest, all that bullshit. Wrote that for you when we were fourteen. I’ve been in love with you since then. Totally, ass over heels in love. I wrote you a _ poem _ , Eddie.” He motioned down his body with one dramatic hand. “_Me_. A poem. I saw you in your booty shorts with your inhaler and fucking fanny pack and thought to myself, _ ‘I’m gonna write him a gay ass poem because I’m in-’ _”

Richie was cut off by the hard press of Eddie’s lips on his, hands coming to cup his cheeks. Richie’s hands hovered for a second before settling on Eddie’s waist, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, licking into Eddie’s mouth, eliciting soft little noises. Oh, fucking _ Hell _did Richie adore those soft little noises. When they finally pulled away, Eddie looked furious.

“I can’t believe you let me almost cry because I thought I’d imagined you saying you love me. That’s so embarrassing, I hate you.” He wiped at his eyes furiously, but a smile was etched onto his face. “‘M in love with you too, or whatever. By the way.”

Richie kissed his cheek. “God, I wish I could tell lil’ Richie that his poem worked.”

“It didn’t,” Eddie deadpanned. “I was already in love with you before I read the poem. Idiot.”

“Ah.” Richie grinned. “Even better. So, what do we do now?”

Eddie turned into Richie’s side, careful not to tug on his IV. He yawned and settled his head on Richie’s chest. “What about tour?”

Richie barked out a laugh. “My managers pissed about the boy from the restaurant. Videos online. And then he goes missing like, the next day. Sketchy as fuck. Hashtag Richie Tozier is over party is definitely trending. I’m cancelling the tour.”

“I’ve been the living embodiment of that hashtag since I was six. Finally people are catching on.”

“Shut up, asswipe.” He ran his fingers through Eddie’s messy hair. Finally, finally. “What, though?”

Eddie sighed. “Stay in Derry ‘til I get better? Then you’re coming with me to New York to pack my shit. We could always go to your place in L.A.?”

“Or we could stay in New York if you want to. Your job is more important than mine.”

“I don’t think that’s true-”

“Sure it is. I can go MIA for months and still be employed. Technically. You, Mr Kaspbrak, risk analyst extraordinaire, cannot. Anyway, we can’t stay here.”

Eddie huffed a laugh. “Derry or New York, I don’t care. As long as I’m with you.”

“That was gay.” Eddie slapped his chest and he laughed. He pressed a kiss to Eddie’s hair because he could _ do that now _ . Because Eddie Kaspbrak _ was in love with him _. 

*

Eddie kept the poem in his wallet for a little while, before it made its way into a photo frame. His husband was adamant that it should not have made its way into a photo frame.

“This poem was _ preserved_. For _ 27 fucking years. _” 

“I don’t care, dipshit. It’s _ embarrassing_.” Richie snaked his arms around Eddie’s waist as he adjusted the frame on the wall above their bed. He was wearing Richie’s t-shirt, far too big, and his underwear. He hadn’t brushed his hair or his teeth yet, but Richie Tozier was convinced that this was Eddie’s best look. _ That’s my fucking husband, _ he thought dazedly. _ I’m married to this guy. _

Eddie spun around in his embrace, wrapping his arms around his neck. “It’s a good fucking poem for you to have written when you were fourteen, though.”

Richie blushed. “I had help. From Stan, actually.”

Eddie’s face went sombre, small smile playing on his lips. “Ever the romantic.”

“I hope him and Patty were happy.” There’s an ache, there, in his chest. A different kind of love that just slipped past his fingers. Platonic soulmates, hadn’t they called each other?

“I know they were,” Eddie said, certain. He smoothed a thumb over Richie’s cheek. “I’m just sorry it couldn’t have been with us.” Just because they had all partnered off to live in different states entirely didn’t mean they weren’t still extremely close. When they met, or FaceTimed, or messaged in their group chat, every Loser felt Stan’s absence like a bleeding gash in their stomach. Heavy and sore; terribly difficult to live with. There was always a warm sort of silence when Stan was mentioned; everyone basking in memories of the boy with the shower caps and the bird books. 

“I miss him.” Richie dropped his head to Eddie’s shoulder, but he pulled away abruptly and whistled.

“Me too. That’s why we have this little guy, though.” Stan padded into the room, big paws slapping on the wooden floor, and Eddie bundled him into his arms. “Keeping Stan’s memory alive every time he tries to eat a pigeon. Say hi to papa,” he cooed, holding the Labrador puppy up to Richie’s face. Stan gave him a sloppy lick. Richie laughed.

“Yeah, I don’t think Stan would condone pigeon slaughter,” Richie mused. Stan tilted his head in confusion at the mention of his name. “Not you, stinky boy. Person Stan.” He bopped him on the nose.

Eddie deposited Stan in Richie’s arms and turned back to the framed poem, fussing with the positioning. “It looks fine, Eds.”

“I know. I just.” He turned to look at Richie, smile steady. Richie wanted to kiss his crows feet and smooth out the wrinkles on his forehead and tell him he loved him over and over and over. “You did, you know.”

It was Richie’s turn to tilt his head. “Did what?”

Eddie held up his hand, palm turned downwards. “You stopped them from shaking forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u so much for reading!! pls drop a comment if u have any criticism, it would be so appreciated. if u have any questions or prompts ig im on twitter @/bevchies and tumblr at eightieshorrorfilm even tho i don't rly use it lmao,, i do log on from time to time. thanks again have a nice day mwah <3


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